Harry Potter and the Walking Dead
by smalltown something
Summary: AU: The shambling undead, a weathered resistance, and an evil corporation. Harry Potter doesn't know how he feels about standing between these three, and the end of the world. Full summary inside. "Definitely not in Kansas anymore."


- **title. **Harry Potter and the Walking Dead.

- **author. **smalltown something.

- **rating. **mature.

- **pairings. **suggestions?.

- **spoilers. **vague references.

- **author's note. **Hello everyone! This story is going to be completely alternate universe; I'm going to be creating an entirely different reality for the wonderful characters from the Harry Potter series to exist in. I have no idea, honestly, how this story is going to turn out, I just have had this need to write something and this is what my mind came up with. It is bordering on a crossover, because it mainly came from way too much Walking Dead in one sitting, and a Resident Evil marathon on television but really it just gave me a place to start. I have some general ideas for what is going to go on in the first chapter or two, but I'm really just making this up as I go along. If the first chapter or two comes out coherent and decent, I'll plan ahead a little more. This is my first Harry Potter fan fiction, and I'd really love some suggestions and feedback; I don't _need_ reviews, but it lets me know I'm doing something right. Or, hey, doing something wrong. Heck, I don't even know what pairing, if any I'm going to do; I've never really thought about it!

- **extended summary. **1997. Seventeen year old Harry Potter hated what his life was; a closet beneath the stairs, a slowly fading false promise of some kind of escape. A crackling voice on the other end of a phone began something frightening, dangerous and extraordinary for a boy who always thought of himself as nothing special. In a hiss of blue electricity he woke up in 2097, a time ravished by the shambling undead; the products of experiments done by the sinister corporation, Voldemort Corps., run by the malicious CEO Thompson Riddle. With the help of an established resistance, H.O.G. W.A.R.T.S, Harry Potter is about to realize just how difficult it is to be someone important; after all, the only thing standing between Tom Riddle and the annihilation of the human race is 'the boy who lived'.

* * *

**4 Pivet Drive; Tuesday, 01 September 1997. 09:20 AM.**

Sometimes he wondered what it was like to have a real family. It was a simple thought, a common thought, but the same one that had been plaguing him for the better part of seventeen years. It was a personal kind of torment to continuously remind himself that there was honestly nothing waiting for him on the opposite side of that rickety wooden door. There would just be another day with the Dursleys; chores, scowls and questions of when he would be removing himself from their care. Another year, he would remind himself, another year of all of this, and he would be able to remove himself and go someplace. He never had any destination in mind, never had any type of salvation planned out. He just knew, in less than a year, he would be able to step outside that door and close this portion of his life for good. He could be someone.

He imagined a magical place. A place where anything was possible, where the sky was the limit and he had no intention of ever stopping. Of course, he knew a place like this didn't exist. The world was exactly what the world was; and magical wasn't it. The world was an rigorous uphill battle for the first fifty years, and then a heel dug-in descent, a brutal set of years trying to stop the downward tumble for as long as possible. But for a seventeen year old Harry Potter? The world was the endless possibilities beyond that door; the grass was always green, wasn't it? Smiling in the darkness of his dank section of the house, cast aside from pleasant conversation, and ignored for anything other than a reminder that he wasn't wanted. Not that he would ever really need the reminder. Sitting up in bed, he pushed his heavy dark bangs off his forehead and settled his attention on the crafted soldier in his hands.

"What do you have to worry about?" Those small plastic eyes gazed at him in a expression of utter seriousness, spin straight and his weapon pressed upward against his shoulder. Turning the soldier over to his other hand, he picked up another; this one had taken one knee, lining up a shot. Harry imagined the target, a body that was far enough that the details were forgettable. When he was younger the small space beneath the stairs had become the scene of man battles; a place where fictional men died and triumphed. Where good infinitely defeated evil. Sure good was always fighting an uphill battle, but evil was digging their heels in. Trying to stop that downward slide into oblivion; he knows which side he'd always pick.

"Potter!" Sprinkled of wood and dust sifted to the floor around him, and the stairs above his head thundered with the steps of his hefty cousin. Breakfast. Dudley got a calm invitation up in his room, while Harry just got a bellow from his uncle in the kitchen. Chipped green eyes lingered a moment longer, before he shoved the soldiers into the box up on the shelf, it disappeared into the murky darkness of his almost-room. Clicking the light off, he lightly leaned on the door to make sure it was unlocked, before pushing the door open and stepping out. Hitting his head on the low door in the process, a hiss of pain escaped him as he rubbed the spot. It wasn't the first time, and it surely wouldn't be the last time either. Standing up to his full height, save the slight slouch he afforded himself when his aunt wasn't looking, he looked toward the kitchen where his uncle was already angrily motioning toward his glass and empty plate.

"Well, don't take all day, boy!" His uncles voice reminded him of the goblins he imagined in his childhood; fearsome creatures with jowls and beady eyes. He supposed his uncles small blue eyes were the picture perfect representation that had allowed his imagination to flourish. Brushing absently at the pieces of dust and ceiling that were lightly tinting the dark fabric of his dark-tan shirt. He had a hard time imagining how he was related to the Dursleys; each one of them with their heavy bones, and considerable extra weight. There was nothing in their lines that suggested that Harry's tall, almost awkwardly thin frame was in anyway biologically related to them. The only vague resemblance he saw was in his aunt's green eyes; they were dull, heavy with poor years and crooked shadows, but they were the promise of what his eyes might look like if he lost himself somewhere along his grand plans.

They had taken him in when he was but a infant; somehow ending up upon their step one thunderous night. He had never known his parents, couldn't remember a single detail about them in all honesty, but that never stopped him from conjuring up some unforgettable duo that slayed dragons and saved kingdoms. It was easy to imagine his parents as larger than life as a child, when they had only existed in his mind. He aunt never stopped reminding him that he had been abandoned on their stoop, that his parents were probably out there somewhere. "Probably ran away with that James fellow. Hadn't seen her for ten years before you showed up, and haven't seen her since." He never believed her, his parents would have come to get him if they could have; he had no doubt in his mind. Even now, at the doubtful age of seventeen, he knew they were good people; better than the Dursleys.

Finger raised to absently rub the lightening shaped scar upon his forehead, he'd had it since as long as he could remember. It used to puzzle him, but he'd long since accepted it as a part of him. Regardless of how it ached sometimes; this morning in particular it throbbed with a resounding burn that he couldn't recall ever feeling before. Chalking it up to having not slept well, he walked into the kitchen and walked straight past the table. Picking up the pitcher of orange juice, he poured his uncle's glass first, the portly man shorted some kind of snide comment while Harry pursed his lips slightly.

"Good morning, uncle Vernon," the words were soft-spoken, an even-toned thought that didn't harbor the loathing it should have for how he was treated inside the house. In fact it was positively resigned that his life would be like this for another year. Another year. "How'd you sleep?"

"As best as can be expected, considering." Somehow the shape beady glare of the man directed at him suggested that somehow Harry was to blame for the fact that his uncle couldn't sleep, despite the fact that Harry hadn't made a single sound all night.

"Clearly we expect too much," what was breakfast without his aunt's input? He had no idea, such a thing had never happened. Exhaling, he just lowered his head slightly and poured her juice. He had long since learned to ignore the cold burn of their eyes on him like he was the blight of their perfect little suburban dwelling.

"Hurry it up! I'm _hungry_!" Dudley bellowed the words with a thick smack of his over-sized hands beside his plate, a shiver traveled through the cheap wood of the table. Harry almost winced, but he turned his startling green eyes upon his cousin and furrowed his dark brow. The spoiled mess probably would go through three plates before he left the table, while Harry only got half a plate and had to wait to serve everyone else before he could start. He'd long since grown accustomed to cold food, it was the only thing he had ever known.

The tense morning, like every morning, was interrupted by the sharp chirp of the phone; it cried while vibrating in the wall hook. He jumped slightly, not expecting the sound and turned to look at it for a paused moment. Wincing when the scar on his forehead throbbed with a intense growl of pain. Everything swam; sounds blurred together, bubbling into his ears and melting into a mess of syllables. The kitchen he had been standing in melted like it was merely a portrait, and the paint began to run. Colors mixed together and dripped down toward his feet; why did he feel like he was falling? Air rushed past his ears and it felt like someone was grabbing his shoulder and pulling him backwards. The fingers on his shoulder tightened until he was forced to reach up and try to pull them off. He wasn't feeling good, nothing seemed to make any type of sense. What was -

"What are you getting at, boy?" Everything snapped quickly into focus, and his uncle gave him another shake. Harry felt his blood pounding in his ears, his nerves pooling in the zig-zag mystery upon his forehead. Turning wary green eyes to his uncle he was confused. What had happened? Lowering his fingers from where they had been prying upon his uncle's hand, he blinked and raised the pitcher of orange juice to fill Dudley's glass. His uncle's hand stopped him, fingers tightening on his shoulder. "Aren't you going to answer that?"

The phone. It was still ringing. How long had it been ringing? Shoulders slumped as he set the pitcher down on the table and he walked into the hallway. The house phone was still crying in the hook, and it didn't look like it would be stopping anytime soon. Lifting a hand, he plucked it from the cradle and lifted it up to his ear. His faint greeting was lost in the sound of static on the other side. It crackled endlessly like someone had merely left the phone off the hook; but there was the faint sound of rustling in the background. It faded in and out with the crackling, and he strained to see if he could make out any voices. They were faintly in the background, but none of their words could be made out. Pursing his lips again, he was about the hang the phone up and tack it down to a wrong number before a voice interrupted his action.

"-arry…Potte-…" Frowning, he strained to make out the voice; it kept cutting in and out, and each word was clipped off. Harry would swear that whoever the person on the other end of the line was, they had said his name. The voice was weathered, rough with age but dignified. Even without the crackling the voice would have been hard to hear, it was soft. Almost gentle in tone. "…-e boy wh-…-ived." The words were breaking up even more heavily, the soft voice growing softer and more distant. But somehow he didn't think it was the connection; when he lifted his eyes, his uncle was standing at the table. His mouth moving, and his face red, clearly angry; but Harry couldn't hear a single word he was saying. It was like his world had resolved itself to revolve around the harsh crackling on the phone. Vernon was getting more and more livid, but Harry's eyes were already glazing over. The vitriolic static plunged into his mind and made everything around his so distant.

And he was falling. The phone still in his grasp, as his feet locked up and allowed him to tip gracelessly backwards. The crackle of the phone rumbled and the house shuddered. He couldn't feel anything, his entire body was numb; except the pain in his scar. The floor yawned open beneath his feet; a hiss of cool air brushed past his fingers and a mess of blue static electricity exploded from the sudden opening under his being. They lached across the walls of the Dursleys' hallway, leaving scorch marks in its wake. The carpet still left began to cough up plumbs of sharp smoke; Harry thought he should have been able to smell the smoke, but he couldn't. He was falling backward, his body locked and heavy with grogginess. He could hardly make out the expressions on the Dursleys' faces before he lost them in the haze of blue static. The crackling on the phone was deafening, as it was beginning to pull away from his fingers. Just before it slipped out of his grasp, he heard two clear words.

"…Harry Potter…" And then everything was swallowed by darkness.

* * *

**H.O.G.S. M.E.A.D.E.; Tuesday, 01 September, 2097. 10:03 PM.**

Why did people fear darkness? He had never been more comfortable in his life, he had never felt more at home than he did with the soft crackle of the black around him. His eyes lurched back and forth beneath his closed lids, but he couldn't seem to struggle enough to open them right away. The pain in his head was howling in a new form of anguish, it pounded on the inside of his skull with the promise to tear him limb from limb. His body felt like his skin had been peeled off and replaced haphazardly; it as the only possible way to describe the feeling of not being whole. Like he was missing something integral, but just hadn't realized what. The muscles in his arm coiled and tried to lift his hand, but it was like smoldering lead. Heavy and impossible to lift, as the burn traveled up his arm with unrepentant rage.

His scar! His body, while double with pain, seemed to become aware of the single spot on his being that didn't hurt, at all. The strange shaped reminder upon his forehead that had hurt his entire life with flares of phantom pains. It was cool and unaffected, it breathed with a ease of being and he couldn't fathom why fate was so fickle that it would cure him of such a minor pain, but replace it with such agony. A groan escaped him as the crackling slowly began to dwindle, leaving a lingering haze of up-coming sounds. Nothing established itself quickly; there was a distant whirr of noise that seemed to grow louder and louder in each passing moment. It sounded almost like a scream, but it was too continuous to be human. Harry tried to keep reminding himself that his mind was playing tricks on him; Dudley probably had the living room television on too loudly again, it was probably just a movie. It was just the television.

Why couldn't he convince himself? The pain was fading from his limbs first, settling itself in his chest with a weight and surety that he would never be able to lift himself of the weight again. Fingers began flexing in what felt like…dirt? It coursed through his fingers, his nails getting stuck on a rock or two; the slight pain didn't bother him, he was too thrilled to actually _feel_ something other than the pain. Limbs slowly twining together so that he would be able to push himself up into a sitting position, the nausea that seized him was sudden and he couldn't deny the burning at the back of his throat. Lurching forward onto his knees, his entire body convulsed as he hunched forward. The pounding in his head this time reminded him that he was still alive, it was almost reassuring. Nothing like the numbing pain, and the brief cool touch of skin.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist, his head hung down, shadowed by the mess of black bangs that had needed a hair cut weeks ago. He realized he had yet to open his eyes; and slowly began to crack them open. They protested, but eventually he forced them wide and the dark dirt beneath him became clear. It took a moment to focus, but it was difficult to try and pick up the memory of how he got here. He remembered pouring juice, then answering the phone. The distorted voice that had been saying his name. Everything after that had become a desperate blank spot in his memory. Sounds were rushing into his ears, awarding him of a slow realization of his surroundings. Just as when he had been laid out, almost nothing could be heard above the loud metallic hiss and whirr of whatever was in the distance, but there was something else. His ears strained and he pushed himself up onto his knees hoping he would be able to figure this out.

As soon as his gaze leveled off, he wished it wouldn't have. Scrambling backward, a strangled cry fell from him, hands scuffing through the dirt while his shoes desperately pushed him away from what he had seen. A ten foot tall link fence was erected before him; it was heavy in the links, and was topped with a vicious set of barbed teeth. But that wasn't what drew his attention, no. It wasn't the fence, it wasn't the foreboding night sky, it wasn't the distant bursts of gunfire. No, none of that registered right away. It was the fingers linked through the fence, yanking on it with desperate exaggeration; fingers that were grayed and dried. Behind the fence, rotten lips were pulled back to express gray and decaying teeth in bloody snarls of hunger. Dozens of milky, empty eyes were set upon him with single purpose fixation; harrowing snarls and moans drifted through the air, nearly hidden by the loud background noise. Shambling corpses were clawing at the fence like it was the only thing between them and dinner. And it was.

Harry felt his lunch lurch into his throat again, but he swallowed it down; refusing to turn away from the site before him for any length of time. His hands were shaking in the dirt beneath him, his entire body was falling headfirst into his fight or flight instinct. It was unanimous; mind, body and soul all agreed on flight. Green eyes snapped around to make any observation that might aid his understanding on what was going on; the only thing that seemed to catch his attention was a large sign with "H.O.G.S. M.E.A.D.E" in red, caution letters. In smaller black text was the translation for the unknown acronym; "Human Organizational Group Settlement: Mandatory Evacuation Area Dangerously Exposed". Obviously it was dangerously exposed, if the shambling corpses were any indication. Fear was eating away at his reason as he shot to his feet; they were clearly stuck on that side of the fence, but it didn't matter, he didn't want to be here anymore. He didn't want to be in any mandatory evacuation area, he didn't want to be confused anymore. He wanted to be home; even if home was a dark nook underneath the stairs.

"Care to explain," He felt something press against the middle of his back; it was narrow and jutting right between his shoulder blades. Not that he was an expert, but it felt like a gun. He was pretty sure it was a gun. Hands automatically thrust into the air, they still trembled obviously while hanging in the open. "-why you're hanging around Hogsmeade, mate?" The muzzle of the gun itched further into his spine, and he gulped down a fresh wave of fear; leave it to his luck to be held at gun point when there was a plethora of _zombies _open for target practice. How did just hanging around warrant this treatment when there were shambling undead to kill? There was a disgruntled 'turn around' issued, and Harry cooperated fully. Hands still up, he got his first look at his capture; there was some squinting required as the spotlight that was circling flew past them and constricted his pupils to struggle in the dark following in the lights wake.

Harry reasoned that his capture was around his age; a perturbed frown set upon a freckled face, his face was a little round, but it was just the spot of baby fat still clinging to the teenager's bones. A mess of red hair stuck out from underneath the helmet slapped onto the adolescent's head; upon the front of the scuffed and scratched helmet was a brandished crest. The shield was sectored into four sections; each housed a creature. A lion, a serpent, a badger and a bird; each of the creatures seemed to center around the old-English 'H' in the middle. "H.O.G. W.A.R.T.S" was set in black upon the upper scroll of the crest, the letters large and proud; beneath the crest was a smaller scroll. "Human Organizational Group: Warfare And Reconnaissance Tactical Service". But while the crest was obviously displayed with pride, Harry was really more concerned with the massive rifle being aimed in his direction It didn't look like any weapon he was familiar with, not that he was by any means a gun expert.

"Listen. I have _no_ idea how I got here, honest. I just woke up here, you've got to believe me," why did his explanation have to sound so…_not true_. But no one would _willingly_ hang around here. At the thought of why he wouldn't personally hang around here willingly, he threw a look over his shoulders. Eyes settled on the mess of dead eyes and rotting fingers, all desperate to get at _him_. Gulping with a growing sense of dread, he turned back around to look at the almost scowling Hogwarts soldier. The gun was just a casual reminder between them that they weren't just having some type of civil conversation. Inhaling again, and almost gagging on the taste of the air, he was about to further explain his situation when there was a bellow just over the ridge.

"Ronald! Ronald Weasley! Where'd you go?" The sound was female, and it was muffled by the rise between them before a identical helmet slowly paraded over the hill. Under the helmet was a bush of dark auburn hair, tied back in some kind of clip, but a brush could have been helpful. Intelligent, hard eyes were set in a soft face, a upturned set of lips hinted at a frown, but really seemed slightly…amused? A rifle was slung over her shoulder, and she seemed poised with a almost rigid posture as she came to stand to _Ronald_'s side. It was brief, and possibly insane, but he was suddenly reminded of his toy soldiers. One set low with rifle aimed at something in the distance, the other standing rigid with their rifle set upon their shoulder. Never had he thought _himself_ as what they were aiming at. "Who're you?"

She sounded suspicious, but not as confrontational as the redheaded teenager. Who was he? Why was he here? Where _was_ here? All of those were really good questions; but he wasn't sure of the answer anymore. Harry let out something that could have sounded like a nervous laugh; it filtered out of him while a shaking hand lowered slightly to push his bangs out of his eyes. He was sweating enough for it to stick to his forehead, so he shoved it backwards and exhaled. Why was this happening to him? Something in the girl's expression made him panic; it was surprise,…and fear. Instantly he turned to look behind him, but the fence was still holding strong; it was obviously built for this purpose. Looking back at the nameless brunette, he had no idea while she was suddenly shoving Ronald's weapon toward the ground, away from him. Her other hand was jabbing in his direction, trying to draw her companion's eye to something.

"That scar, Ron," she exclaimed, her voice nothing but a astonished whisper. "The boy who lived. Harry Potter…"


End file.
